Preston Reece had placed five students on the ice at the Chestnut Valley Skating Club’s test session, none of them adults. All but one passed his or her test. He had recommended to the one student’s mother that she was not ready to test her novice moves in the field, but the parent insisted. Preston reluctantly signed the test application. The student could pass if she did not crumble from nerves, but experience told him this was an unlikely possibility. After picking up the pieces and giving the teenage girl a pep talk to which she and her mother agreed the student would not test again until Preston declared her ready to succeed. Sometimes a failure was necessary to reinforce the coach’s control and knowledge of a situation. If this family insisted again, Preston would have to decline and possibly suggest the mother hire a new coach for her supposed champion.

As he prepared to leave the rink, several adult skaters warmed up for tests. Three women he did not know were scheduled to test gold. These ladies probably trained at different rinks and wanted to test in foreign territory. Home ice is usually the more appealing and natural place to take on a challenge like testing, but some skaters feel more comfortable away from peering eyes of acquaintances. The simple need to fit testing into a difficult schedule also sends adults far afield for testing. He decided to stay and watch the gold tests. Preston did not have many adult students, and none but Kate had the potential to pass gold, at least not in the near future. It had been a long time since Preston observed an adult gold test session. He was curious. Rules were changing and adult skating was developing. A new adult moves in the field testing system was in the works.

Later that evening, Preston fed a CD into his computer. He had watched Kate’s regional performance before, but he felt the need to review it again. His conclusion was obvious. Kate Svenssen was the best adult-trained skater he knew. Her overall performance out-placed her competition at the regional event. However, the lack of an axel, even an attempted axel, cost her a medal and possibly the highest standing on the podium. Preston picked up his phone and dialed.

It was nine o’clock and I was just preparing to leave the bridal salon. My boss and I had stayed late to meet with a sales representative of a gown manufacturer to view next year’s spring/summer line. We ordered several sample gowns that would certainly delight our clientele. I loved seeing the new styles. As a college student employed as a bridal consultant, I was drawn to the smell of new gowns whether they had arrived in boxes to be displayed in our stock or were carried into the shop in garment bags by a sales rep. To my delight, I often modeled the gowns in those days, being younger and slimmer and creating the healthy magazine image of a bride. My days of modeling ended when I earned my degree and ceased to work in the salon. My current boss, an older motherly woman named Cecelia, did not ask me to model anything. We spread the samples out on the furniture and examined the fabric, beading, and workmanship. I no longer looked like a blushing twenty-something bride; maybe more like her aunt. The store had closed at seven o’clock and the salesgirls had long since gone home. There were no budding bridal designers at this salon that would hang around at night to look at fresh samples. But it still sent a shiver of anticipation up my spine. I loved my job.

Cecelia called to me from the office as I turned off the lights in the main parlor. “Kate, your purse is ringing!”

“Sorry, Cecelia. That must be my husband.” I had turned on my phone after closing. Maxwell had a surgery scheduled that night and told me he would call if there were complications. I went into the office and dug my phone out of its compartment as Cecelia disappeared into the backroom to close down for the night. It was Preston Reece’s name and phone number that appeared on the caller ID. Damn, he probably had to cancel our lesson the next morning.

“Kate, I know this can wait, but I have a full schedule tomorrow and don’t want to take away from our training time to talk about this. I went to an adult test session today. Can you meet me for coffee?” Preston had obviously called my house and learned from Max that I was still at work. He sounded rushed and excited.

“Sure, Preston. I’ll see you at the café by the rink. Give me twenty minutes.” We disconnected.

Preston was already there sipping a huge mocha java with caramel syrup poured over the whipped cream topping. He was holding my competition CD and had his laptop in front of him. His smiled widely, like a little boy with a juicy secret. A waiter came to take my order. I eyed my coach suspiciously. “I’ll take what he’s having minus the caffeine.”

“So, Kate…” he began still grinning like an idiot.

“What’s up, Preston?” He had only done this a couple of times before; calling me to meet him for some important discussion. One time had been to ask me to design a last-minute costume for one of his students and the other time had something to do with my own skating, though I don’t remember what.

“You can pass gold.”

After the customary discussion of my inadequate axel and decision to give up the chase, Preston announced what he had said before though never as forcefully. A decent attempt in the context of strong skating would pass the test. Over our years together, my basic skating and footwork had improved, which was boldly obvious in my program video. He scanned the flight of other competitors commenting on various aspects of their abilities. Most of them did not have high-quality axels. Preston could tell the difference between a mistake and the norm. These people probably never landed textbook axels. He picked through mine, item by item. Placing the required test skills into the program and omitting those that were unnecessary, I would have a passing routine. We would put the axel at the end where the waltz-loop combination had been. All I had to do was land on my feet, preferably on one foot.

The three skaters he saw that day at Chestnut Valley all passed adult gold. None had an axel better than my previous results. Only one had to reskate the element. He said I could otherwise skate circles around them.

“I wouldn’t put you out there if I didn’t think you could succeed.” That wasn’t exactly true, but this time he was the one doing the pushing, not an overzealous parent and anxious teen.

After all I had learned and all I had been through, I wanted this. I still wanted it. But I felt apprehensive, remembering the injury. I simply could not afford to break a leg again. It would make working in the bridal salon difficult and probably impossible at first. I would have to collect disability and leave Cecelia in a temporary pickle.

Preston sensed my mixed emotions, which must have been clearly displayed on my face. “Look, Kate,” he began casually, “I’m not saying you should enter competitions and do axels if you don’t want to. I’m talking about testing. You have all but earned that gold test already. You might as well document it. After you pass the test, you never have to do another axel again. You understand the axel, Kate. You could even teach it.”

“I’m not going to be a coach.”

Preston shrugged noncommittally, smiling.

We had known each other for years. We built a trusting relationship. He never wanted me to do anything half-assed, nor did I. He explained that I would not just be throwing my body into the wind. I understood how to do an axel and could pull off a respectable attempt, if I wanted to. Yes, I wanted to. I wanted to pass that test. I had proven myself as a competent skater with a balanced assortment of skills. An imperfect but decent axel attempt would not diminish me in anyone’s eyes or undermine my other accomplishments. In fact, in the context of the rest of my skating: my spins, flying spins, other single jumps, and footwork; a small shortcoming on the hardest jump on the test would probably be excused, if not overlooked entirely.

We agreed. I would go for it. He pulled a folded test schedule and application out of his pocket. We picked a date. Both of us signed the form. He licked and sealed the envelope and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. No backing out now.

Preston was no longer grinning foolishly when he approached me for my lesson the next morning. Now he was all business. I had three months to get my axel back and restructure my program. He skated my program with the test elements and walked through placement of the axel. Following his demonstration, I took my first walk-through without music. I did not try the axel. Preston nodded. He popped my tape into the player, and I took my starting pose. My coach shouted out the elements as a reminder as each change approached. I completed everything. Then the moment arrived. The axel; the last jump of the program. Skating slowly in anticipation, I pushed all concerns out of my mind and stepped up. I landed on a flat blade with a thud. Nothing had changed. At least it didn’t hurt. I had avoided axels long enough to heal completely. I skated to a stop in time with the music and held my final position. At least I was still in shape.

I allowed my brain to engage again. Maybe I had hoped for magic, or at least a cheated soft landing on the toe. That was the minimum. In a frantic moment, I wondered if Preston still carried the application in his pocket and if I could shred it right there in the rink. I glided over to my coach, whose brow had furrowed in concentration. He was seeking a new approach to solve this problem. He scratched his cheek absently. Neither of us said anything.

“I’m putting you in the harness,” he decided without further explanation.

He belted me in and explained his theory. “I want you to point your landing toe. That’s it. Do the axel and point your toe.”

I jumped and felt him jerk on the harness, holding me aloft. “Point your toe,” the coach commanded.

I pointed my toe and Preston set me gently back on the ice.

This went on and on, over and over. He did not lift me into the air; he let me jump in my own time according to my own rhythm and what he had called ‘understanding of the axel’. Preston did not engage the harness until I reached the peak of my jump, when he yelled “Point!” with increasing fervor or was it frustration? Eventually, I started pointing. He did not release me from the harness that day and asked me not to do any axels without it. Preston was retraining my muscle memory without the distractions of fear and failure. He suggested additional fifteen-minute lessons at least twice weekly to set and solidify the new pattern of movement. I scheduled one of the extra lessons for my next late morning.

Anyone else might have considered my coach’s method overkill, but I trusted him and followed his instructions. For a month, I jumped axels only in the harness; no off-ice attempts and no sneaking axels on my own. Finally, and without warning, he stopped hoisting me. He waited until he was quite certain the new behavior was ingrained and he no longer had to cue me with the demand to point my toe. I jumped up, as usual, and pointed my toe. The rope hung slack in Preston’s hand. I landed an axel on my toe, finished one-quarter turn on the ice and glided out.

“You just passed gold.”

For a couple more weeks, I abided by Preston’s rules. Sometimes he lifted me, sometimes he yelled at me, sometimes he just let me jump. I never left the harness. Preston randomized my attempts until they became consistent. Six weeks into my retraining, he unbuckled the harness and allowed it to drop wordlessly to the ice. We looked at each other. Neither of us spoke. The next step was obvious. I smoothed my sweatshirt, skated meticulous backward crossovers, stepped forward, lifted onto an invisible staircase, rotated, pointed, and landed. An axel. A simple, basic, grossly unremarkable, slightly cheated, single axel.

I passed the adult gold test, as scheduled, without a reskate. It was almost anticlimactic. Only one of three judges commented that the axel was slightly under-rotated. Preston and I sat across a table at the café after my test. We both sipped caramel mocha javas.

“So, coach, what now?”

Preston, my longtime coach and friend, drew a dramatic breath. “There’s always the double.”

“I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.”

I never expected to actually do an axel of any acceptable sort, especially not after my injury and abandonment of the quest. I had been satisfied with my skating. I no longer felt a need to complete an axel to call myself a figure skater or to feel accomplished. Maybe I had to evolve beyond the sense of desperation that had driven me in the past. Maybe I needed to be satisfied to reach beyond my complacency. I had to be content with myself and all facets of my life not to be consumed and self-defeated. Nothing hinged on the axel anymore. If I had never landed one or passed the pivotal test, I would not have cared. This was just icing on the cake. Pun intended.

My gold test certificate arrived a few weeks later in the mail, encased by a sturdy envelope just like a diploma. My name appeared in the skating association magazine along with other adults who had passed the same test throughout the country. I studied the certificate for several minutes. It was printed on heavy stock with raised lettering, unlike my bronze and silver certificates which were more modest. I considered framing it and hanging it on the wall. Instead, I slid it back into the mailing envelope and placed it in the drawer with my other skating documents and university diplomas. I did it the honor of leaving it on top and pushed the drawer closed.

Chapter 97 posted 6/29/09
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